


Ready When The Kill Time Comes

by agirlnamedtruth



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Roanoke
Genre: Blood, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, Bloodplay, Body Worship, Breathplay, Cunnilingus, Dark, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, Face-Sitting, Finger Sucking, Fingerfucking, Licking, Masturbation, Murder, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Sacrifice, Worship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-30
Updated: 2016-11-30
Packaged: 2018-09-03 08:37:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8705305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agirlnamedtruth/pseuds/agirlnamedtruth
Summary: Thomasin makes herself ready for Scáthach's Mass and takes her place as butcher to the goddess.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt _American Horror Story: Roanoke: The Butcher/Scáthach, worship_ at [Femslash Kink](https://femslash-kink.dreamwidth.org). Title from Glory and Gore by Lorde.

Thomasin White made the sign of the cross, _her_ cross, starting low on her belly, just above her sex before pressing her thumb into her throat, making it hard to breath, the final incision slicing across the gut, had her fingers been a blade, all her insides would have spilled out for her. An inverted cross; to show how Jesus had betrayed them all, The woman’s cross against a cult of men, of Lukes, Mathews, Marks and Johns. She knew what she had to do; she had to give them to her, to her Mistress. Every last one of them. Only then could she serve her.

She lifted her axe, cutting them all from this world, making sure to slice the parts that bled the most beautifully, the jugular, the femoral, the abdominal aorta, all of them spraying like geysers, baptizing her and drenching the ground below. The dry, dusty dirt soaked it up thirstily, not wasting a single drop and there wasn’t an untouched patch of skin or cloth. Blood matted her hair, ran down her face and between her breasts, her dress sodden and heavy with it. 

Thomasin knelt down among the hands and the kneecaps, the garlands of guts and gore, the still beating hearts. She knelt and she prayed again. But not for God. He hadn’t saved her last time, when these whelps had turned their back on their leader and chosen their fate. She prayed to her. To Scáthach. 

She told her all she had done, for her. What she had gladly given. What she longed to give further. She waited in the red glow of the moon. The blood moon.

“Butcher...” Scáthach whispered proudly, surveying the kingdom of meat she’d built her with her own two hands and her axe. “Butcher...”

“Yes,” Thomasin said quickly, taking the honorific. “Your Butcher done her holy work.”

“Yes, you have,” Scáthach crooned, throwing herself down on the floor, rolling in the filth, crawling over dead men like they were her lovers, kissing their dead mouths. By the time she came to kneel above Thomasin, she was streaked with dirt and stained with blood, twigs and leaves and stringy bits of sinew clinging onto broken bones. “What do you want as your reward?”

Thomasin bowed her head. She had never wanted for much in her life. Food to fill their bellies, pork or long pork, however it came to the table, and a warm bed, with or without her husband to share it, she cared not. But that was meaningless now. She had transcended cold and hunger. She had transcended this pitiful existence and her cowardly husband. She had found something more.

“I only want to serve you,” Thomasin answered solemnly. She wouldn’t play at it like the God followers did. She wouldn’t serve when it suited, shying away from real worship when it was hard and dirty work. She had proved that.

Scáthach nuzzled into her, sniffing her as though she could smell the truth of it, smell all the lies she’d told in her life. _Thou shalt not kill_. 

Finding Thomasin’s pledge to her liking, she pressed a chaste kiss to her blood spattered cheek, like a mother to a child. But that wasn’t the end of her kisses. She was no mother. She was a goddess. She was pagan, sex and lust and blood. Thomasin felt a shiver that had not gone through her in long decades, since before Ambrose was conceived. This would be her wifely duty, to marry herself to her goddess, to birth her a thousand servants. 

Scáthach lapped at the blood, kittenish at first then hungrily, teeth scraping against her bones as her rough tongue caught every drop, slurping it from the crevices created by starvation, cleaning her until she was naught but pink tinged and damp, shivering and tingling. She knew it wasn’t just blood her mistress craved. She’d seen her in the woods, watched her take men and made them sin against God. She’d never seen her take a woman yet but she longed to worship her in every way she could, even with her body that had not suffered a touch in a score.

She reached out, her breath held and her hand shaking as she placed it on her goddess’ thigh, realizing her blasphemy when Scáthach reached out and pulled it away, bending the fingers back until the bones snapped, one at a time like a hammer running over the keys on a xylophone in a sharp incline. Thomasin didn’t cry out or beg her to stop; she didn’t utter a sound, grinding her teeth to grind the pain away to nothing.

“Touch yourself,” Scáthach commanded, letting go of her hand and taking the other one up, kissing the back of it, giving her blessing. “But not me.”

The goddess watched with sharp, birdlike eyes as Thomasin set her axe on the ground and stripped off her dress, her broken fingers fumbling with the laces, her joints creaking as she shifted on her knees, pushing her dress down until she was bared as a newborn for her, covered the same in blood and red threadlike cords and spongy, sticky matter that nobody had a name for.

Scáthach stayed still for a moment, drawing in a breath when Thomasin finally spread her cunt and started to touch before she turned her attention away, scavenging from the bodies, picking at them, licking her fingers, searching each of them for something she could make beautiful, for something she could hang in the butcher’s trap. 

Thomasin’s eyes followed her as she moved full circle around the colonists, touching herself just enough to stay on edge, not enough to feel true pleasure but enough to feel something for a mistress. She was saving herself for her goddess, waiting in faith that she would return to her, even when she moved to the woods edge, throwing hunks of raw meat to the animals, feeding her brood, letting them lick her fingers. 

Thomasin’s patience was rewarded and her goddess returned to her, stroking her wet fingers under her jaw to lift her higher on her knees, her knees open wide, nothing like the practiced prayer position. She made an approving sound low in her throat, reaching between Thomasin’s legs to trace over her cunt, dancing around her fingers on her clit and pushing inside, the blood slick making it easier for them to glide right in, even as she clenched tight around them, her body clamping down ferociously, instinctively.

“Shh, shh, I just want a taste,” Scáthach whispered soothingly, wrenching her fingers free and sucking them into her mouth. She savored the rarer taste before lifting her bare foot from the ground, pushing it into Thomasin’s shoulder, kicking her onto her back on the ground, smiling as she scrabbled to right herself, keeping her easily pinned with her toes. “Stay down.”

When Scáthach was satisfied she wouldn’t move, she stepped daintily onto her other shoulder, dragging her virgin’s dress up and lowering herself down to crouch over Thomasin’s face, sitting on her chest, straddling her mouth, pushing down to stop her breath, smothering her with her cunt. “Eat!”

She lifted herself up a breath so Thomasin could open her mouth before grinding back down, riding her slack mouth and eager tongue, rolling her hips just enough so the woman could breathe every so often, her fingers twisting in the dead, parched grass. “Keep touching, butcher...”

Thomasin did as she was told, hastily stroking her own clit as she worshipped Scáthach’s cunt, eating her like the taste of her could remedy a hundred nights of hunger, giving more to her than she’d gave to her marriage, debasing herself lower than she had in her marriage bed, sacrificing a different virginity than she had on her wedding night. She _submitted_ to her goddess, giving up complete control for the first time in her life, giving her everything she wanted.

Scáthach howled like a wild beast when she finally climaxed, head thrown back to cry at the moon, thighs shaking, clamping tight around Thomasin’s face, smothering her for so long she started to pass out before the stars blinked back into existence, still obediently stroking at her own clit. The feel of Scáthach sliding down her body, nuzzling into her, purring, pliant and domesticated as a cat made her all the more determined to come for her, to share in that pleasure with her goddess but suddenly the warm body against hers was torn away and her eyes could barely follow the streak of white through the trees.

“Follow, butcher...” Scáthach commanded, her voice on the air, in her ear, giving purpose to her very soul. Her cunt pained her sharply as she withdrew her touch, so close to completion but she ignored it, pulling her dress up around her chest and getting unsteadily to her feet. Her body was no longer needed but her axe still was.

**Author's Note:**

> As of 01/01/18, I'm opting to disable comments. [More information here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13077201).


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